


Craisin

by FiaMac



Series: Portmanteaux With Love [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Comment Fic, Crack, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 08:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10486956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: Who truly knows the man behind the legend? Another crack!fic in the vein of "Hangry".





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slashmania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmania/gifts).



Anya is beyond excited. She gets to work with Eames— _the_ Eames!—thanks to an enthusiastic recommendation from her old friend, Yusuf. It’s her first high-profile job as a chemist, and it’s guaranteed to launch her reputation in dreamshare into stratospheric levels.

But none of that is what’s really floating her boat. No, what she’s so excited about is that working with _Eames_ also means working with _Arthur_. The Point Man. Gorgeous, deadly, and competent to the extreme—Arthur is a veritable rockstar in their world, and the opportunity to work with him can make or break careers. And bones, too, or so the rumors go.

Mel is going to flip when he finds out.

Whatever Yusuf told Eames must have given Anya some extra clout because when Eames casually mentioned they were still looking for an architect, he’s happily receptive to her recommendation.

Mel is a bit of a spaz on the personal end, but he’s brilliant at what he does, and he’s been her best friend for decades. He’s also followed Arthur’s career closely over the years, and Anya is jazzed about giving him a sweet hookup like this.

Yeah, Mel is totally going to flip.

 

 

Mel is freaking the fuck out.

Anya is seriously regretting her to decision to surprise him with the details of who they’ll be working with. Maybe it would have been best if  he could have worked all this shit out in advance, at home. “Okay, you really need to chill, dude. They’re going to be here any minute. We can’t have you doing… this.”

 _This_ is Mel going into a tailspin of excited terror. Eyes so wide they’re practically nothing but white, Mel has been pacing circles around the shabby office like a demented terrier.

“It’s fucking _Arthur_ , Anya! _Arthur_. How the crap am I supposed to chill when you just spring this kind of shit on me. I’m not ready for this. Oh my god, what if he hates me? What if he hates _my work?”_

“He’s not going to hate your work. You’re a genius.”

“I’ll never be able to show my face again. I’ll be ruined. Or dead! What if I’m dead?”

“Why would you be dead?”

“Because when Arthur decides he hates the way I build dreams and it ruins one of his jobs he’s going to kill me so that I don’t infect the purity of his work with my hubris and I almost wouldn’t mind except I finally perfected the look of the ocean at low tide and I was really looking forward to using that—”

“He’s not going to kill you, Mel.” Anya rolls her eyes. “He’s not like that.”

“The hell he’s not. Arthur is a perfectionist. He demands excellence. He once burned down an Applebee’s because his food was served cold—”

“There’s no way that’s true.”

“It’s totally true,” Mel asserts with the fervor of a dedicated conspiracy theorist. “Everyone knows Arthur has to eat every three hours or he goes into a rampage. He’s like… like… one of those berserkers from ancient legend. Yeah, like a fearsome warrior that’s kind of chill at first, and then _bam!_ Deadly rage and destruction. No survivors. Scorched earth.”

“You’re a nut.”

The outer door to the small building opens with a gentle swoosh of air, and quiet voices filter down the corridor.

Mel squeaks and leaps behind Anya. “Oh hell, they’re here.”

 

 

Hours later, Anya really feels bad about springing this job on Mel without warning. The dynamic in the room isn’t going well. Eames is every bit as cheerful and friendly as she expected, if a bit overwhelming, but Arthur… Arthur is an ass. No way around it.

Eames might be the designated extractor for this job, but it’s immediately clear that Arthur runs the show. He barks instructions for setting up the workspace, beady eyes inspecting every inch of the office suite with scathing disdain before staking claim to the separate room in the back and silently going to work.

Which is better than that first awkward five minutes of introduction, when Arthur had greeted her and Mel with all the warmth of a barracuda.

Anya didn’t mind so much for herself—she can appreciate Arthur’s work even if the man himself is a dick—but the apprehension in Mel’s eyes is awful. After years of fanboying after the man, the reality of meeting his personal idol is clearly falling short of Mel’s idealized fantasies.

Eames flits about Arthur’s orbit with hearts in his eyes, so he’s obviously not going to be much help there, a fact made perfectly clear that afternoon. Arthur prowls out of the office after a less-than-inspiring “team meeting” that in truth had been more like Anya and Mel justifying their very existence in the industry.

Mel hasn’t blinked once in the last four minutes.

Eames lingers behind with an apologetic smile. “You’ll have to excuse him,” he says with a nod to the still-swinging door. “He missed lunch and is a little out of sorts.”

Mel whimpers. Quietly, though, so only Anya hears. Maybe.

“Anyway,” Eames continues as he gathers up his coat and his _I HEART CHEESE CURDS_ travel mug, “looks like I’ll be out of town for a few days. Do me a favor, yeah? Keep an eye on Arthur? Don’t let him overwork while I’m away.”

Anya just nods to get Eames on out the door before Mel breaks down.

 

 

It doesn’t go well. Mel is already pale with terror by the time Anya gets in the next morning. He accosts her the second she’s through the door, whisper-yelling at her while keeping his head on a swivel. Arthur must be working in the back.

“What are we going to do, Anya? For reals, what are we going to do?”

“Jesus, Mel, it isn’t even nine o’clock. What the hell?”

“He threw a pen at my head and called me an assbag.”

“That’s probably not what happened.”

“You weren’t here! That’s totally how events unfolded. He tried to kill me.”

“Maybe you misinterpreted his actions.”

“How can you _say_ that?”

“Well, if he was trying to kill you, you’d be dead, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Mel considers that statement. “That’s fair.”

 

 

By that afternoon, however, even Anya has to admit that Arthur maybe, probably _is_ trying to kill them after she walks in on him cleaning his gun with a look of longing on his face.

“Okay, so maybe you’re right,” she tells Mel.

“I know! So what do we do.”

“Well, you said he’s like a burger-fiend or something, yeah?”

“Berserker. I said he’s like a berserker.”

“Whatever. So we’ll just make sure he eats and stuff.”

“Psshaw. You’re going to stroll in there and tell Arthur it’s snack time?”

“What?! No. This isn’t a daycare. We’re going to be adults here and leave the snacks on his desk where he can find them.”

 

 

“Are you kidding me, Anya? Double-chocolate fudge cookies?”

“What? We wanted to make sure he eats; who wouldn’t want double-chocolate fudge?”

“Have you _seen_ him? Those are not the thighs of a man that eats double-chocolate fudge. That man’s body is a temple.”

“Okay, fine. You pick something.”

 

 

The week—and Arthur’s mood—just gets worse. If Anya leans a little to the left, she can peek into Arthur’s office and just about see the black scowl aimed at the bananas sitting on the corner of his desk.

“He’s not eating them,” she reports.

“Shh. He’ll hear you.”

“He won’t. He’s on the phone.”

Sure enough, she can make out bits and pieces of the conversation.

“…like a couple of teenagers… an idiot… Seriously, Eames, when are you… can’t take much more of this… kill… Jesus, Eames…”

Suddenly the door to Arthur’s office slams shut, causing her to jump out of her seat and hit the floor with a tooth-rattling force. She stares at the ceiling, thinking it’s as good a time as any to consider her life choices. “We need to try something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Think.”

“I can’t do all the thinking around here! I’m a Sagittarius!”

“Fine, I’ll get something.”

“Okay. Oh! Get something fruity. But nothing citrus—the acidity is bad for his tooth enamel. A man in his position needs nice teeth. And best to just stay away from blueberries, entirely, because…”

 

 

“Raisins? You got him a box of raisins?!”

“You said get raisins.”

“I said _craisins!_ The little cranberry things. Everyone knows he hates raisins.”

“I’m really questioning your sources.”

“Omigod, we’re gonna die.”

“Wait! Do you hear that?”

“You mean the sound of my balls shriveling up into my body?”

“You’re so disturbed. No! I mean… there.”

Heads tilted, they inch towards the half-closed door of Arthur’s office, where the rumble of quiet laughter has replaced the usual sounds of aggressive typing and pens hitting walls. Mel gives her a little shove forward, which she returns with interest. He throws her his best baby-duck look—plus an elbow to the ribs—and she gives in with a silent huff.

She creeps closer, Mel plastered to her back, until she can peer around the edge of the door.

Arthur is sitting on his desk, shoulders relaxed and a smile on his face for the first time since… well, since creation, probably. And standing between Arthur’s spread knees is none other than Eames—back from his travels, apparently—feeding Arthur raisins with an absolutely sinful grin on his face.

“Oh,” Mel gasps in her ear. “That makes sense.”

 

* * *

 

Bonus Material: why Arthur got distracted from the bananas

 

“They left me bananas today.”

_“That’s sweet. You gonna eat one, then? Care to send a picture?”_

“You’re ridiculous.”

_“Come on, love, just a nibble? It’s been days, and I’m in agony here.”_

“We’re not going to exchange dirty selfies like a couple of teenagers.”

_“Too right. Straight to the phone sex.”_

“You’re an idiot.”

_“And yet you love me.”_

“No argument. Seriously, Eames, when are you finishing up? You’ve been gone most of the week. I can’t take much more of this.”

_“Soon, my love. Another day at most, I promise.”_

“This is killing me. And poor Mel and Anya, I keep taking my bad mood out on them.”

_“For shame, poppet. Don’t tell me I’m going to have to punish you the minute I get back.”_

“Shit, don’t. You’re making me hard.”

_“Maybe I’ll spank you right there in the office, hmm?”_

“Jesus, Eames…”

 


End file.
